


XII

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [14]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They sit down in an oddly adversarial fashion on either side of the kitchen table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	XII

It’s a little odd that Paul hasn’t seen Foyle’s kitchen before, having eaten so much food that came out of it. It’s a comfortable little room at the back of his house. A swinging door with a bottom panel that shows the marks of frequent kickings-open separates it from the front hall. The windows over the sink look directly out into the garden -- or they would if they weren’t blinded with blackout curtains. The overhead light is shrouded in a thick glass globe and casts a dim light that Foyle supplements with -- of all things -- an oil lamp on the table. When he sees Paul looking at it, he says, ‘I found it in the cellar and wanted to see if it would work. Handy to have if the lights go out.’

Paul nods and pulls the bottle of whiskey out of the paper bag, setting it on the table by the lamp. Foyle gets two tumblers -- Paul recognizes them: plain glass but short and heavy, a decent whiskey glass -- down from a shelf by the range and puts one in front of Paul, the other in front of himself.

They sit down in an oddly adversarial fashion on either side of the kitchen table. There’s a faded red patterned tablecloth on the table and the oil lamp gives it a warm glow. Beyond the faint smell of the oil, the kitchen smells of soap and, a little more distantly, of mutton and mint and old tea leaves. There’s a tea cup and saucer on the draining board beside the sink, the teapot is beside the range, the kettle on a back burner.

Paul thumbs the cork out of the bottle and pours them each a respectable drink. ‘Water, sir?’ He puts the bottle on the table.

Foyle looks a little scandalized. ‘I’ll take that for a joke, sergeant!’

Paul smiles -- _fuck it_ \-- and takes a deep breath of the heavy scent before taking a sip. It’s as good as it smells: a little sweet at first, a smoky burn going down, and then nothing but a clean taste. 

He doesn’t realise until he takes a third sip that Foyle is watching him, sitting quietly with his hands cupped around his own glass.

Paul swallows the whiskey, suddenly tasteless, and asks, ‘Something wrong, sir?’

Foyle is silent for a long beat of time and then says, ‘Christopher.’

Paul’s heart beats heavy in his throat. ‘Sir?’

Foyle smiles and shakes his head. ‘You’re in my kitchen, drinking my whiskey.’

Paul licks his lips and swallows. ‘Christopher.’ The name feels different in his mouth. He can remember what it tasted like on his lips last night, alone, in his room -- he wonders if anyone has ever called him Chris. _Fuck it._

Foyle takes a quick drink himself and then stands back up, pushing himself to his feet with a quick gesture, and walking past Paul into the sitting room. Paul twists to look after him. ‘Something wrong?’ The whiskey is starting to sing a little in his head and he pushes his glass away.

Foyle snaps on the light on the table by the sitting room door and digs around on a shelf for a minute. He comes back, leaving the light glowing in the other room, and drops a rattling box on the table. He reaches out and hauls his chair around, the legs squeaking on the linoleum, so that they’re sitting on either side of a corner.

‘Checkers.’ Paul opens the box and takes out the board.

‘I used to play against myself for hours when I couldn’t sleep,’ Foyle says, sorting out pieces. 

‘Did you count wins or losses?’

Foyle picks up two pieces -- red in one hand, black in the other -- and closes his fingers over them. He puts his hands behind his back for a brief moment and then holds out his closed hands. ‘Your pick.’

Paul watches his face for a moment and then taps the back of his left hand. Foyle drops a black piece into Paul’s palm. ‘Both,’ he says, ‘wins and losses. But--’ He looks up at Paul. ‘--I never won more than I lost.’


End file.
